Oblivion
by euphorbic
Summary: Movie version Folken introspective piece. Theme is hatred as a loss of freedom. Sora carefully manipulates Folken into rethinking his hatred for Van. Somewhat FolkenSora.
1. Oblivion

[Disclaimer: I certainly don't make any claims of ownership of any of the copyrights to any of the versions of Escaflowne; I just enjoy them interactively as well as in a static sense.] 

[Note: This was intended to be longer, but I hit a wall that suggested it go somewhere I'm not sure I want to go.]

Oblivion 

Behind closed eyes he could almost believe everything was already gone. With his back to the glass and his head obscured under his cloak, his mind would reach out into the comfortable oblivion of darkness. The sensations of his thoughts were given to the rapid-fire pulses of war planning and politicking or, far less likely, the slow throb of memories.

Sometimes he dozed off from the strain of living a life made remarkable for being the firstborn son of an ungrateful king and finding the will to put an end to an entire world's suffering. His own suffering was not so remarkable, but cut so deep a cavern that it could only be echoed in the heart of a goddess.  And why? Because pain and suffering was commonplace. Pain and suffering was even inflicted by fathers on their sons. Pain and suffering through negligence, fancy, playing favorites... through complicity.

It was an old saying that you could only hate those you once truly loved or trusted. It was a saying that implied betrayal. And who had not betrayed Dune? Had not his father betrayed him by favoring Van? Had his fey mother not betrayed him by allowing it? Had not Van, of all people, had the choice to refuse their father's unorthodox wishes and had he not betrayed him more deeply than all the others?

Van... Under the cloak, the corner of his mouth twitched toward a reflexive snarl. A hand, whose tattoos were hidden by black armor, twitched in a phantasm of crushing a throat or gripping a sword.

Van could have stopped everything with a simple refusal, but he had accepted the favoritism of their father for power. Even children were capable of betrayal when given a choice between power and solidarity. Van had called it duty, but Dune had seen it for greed it was. It was all the worse a blow for the warm feelings he'd had for Van.

Van couldn't forget the times Dune had spun him out in rapid circles by his hands and feet.  Before Van could fly, Dune had shown him what it was like. The peals of childish laughter couldn't be quickly forgotten when the event was not far removed from such the betrayal. There had been times Van had ridden on Dune's shoulders as his elder brother sped to the top of a cliff in time for brilliant sunsets. No one would forget such profound beauty in a scant few years; they could only turn their back on them.

Just as he assumed his much younger brother could turn from brotherhood, kinship, and beauty, Dune found he could do the same. It was these very things, he understood at long last, that made suffering so acute. The deeper the joy, the harsher the pain. Dune never made it out of a debilitating depression that left him a numb and shivering wreck.  Instead, Folken did.

Folken rose up out of a crucible so horrific and black that the only fitting scene for his ascent was the ashes of the country that spawned him. Fanelia and all her inhabitants were nothing to him, yet he spared them the suffering of life just as easily as he knew he would eventually spare himself. They deserved much worse than obliteration by sword and fire. It cost Folken very little; some sight, kin, trivial bits of humanity... flight.

Their father said he was not fit to rule, but how the people of Gaia flocked to his standard.  It seemed obvious to Folken that his father was little more than a fool who had doomed his own country and favored child.  Under the late king's nose, he became a rightful leader of men soon to be joined with a sorrowing goddess that would help him end all the suffering in the world. True, there were those who resisted, but no one could stand for long against the overwhelming strength of his will when catalyzed by a betrayal so primal. It was his fierceness and will that drew followers by the score. It was hard to resist joining the side of such incredible force of personality and absolute faith in purpose.

And Sora... he had her and her song behind him as well. He would end her suffering, too. It was the least he could do for such loyalty from one of her kind.

Reminded of Sora, he allowed her song to float through the outskirts of his nearly restful oblivion. Sometimes, when he dozed, he could not tell if his purpose was already fulfilled or not. At times like those, Sora's presence helped him orient his darkened edges.

Folken felt the palpable presence of Sora' song while he inhabited the edge of nothingness and was reminded his purpose was not yet fulfilled. Part of him observed that her voice was enchanting and more lovely a creation than Gaia had ever known, but none of him was actually moved by it. He was beyond things that could lead to suffering, for the suffering that was his genesis overlay all other pain.

"Where is she?" He murmured from under the heavy silk of his cloak. It was a forgone conclusion who he referred to.

Despite the low volume of his voice, the young woman heard and let her quiet song fade. Sora paused before answering, as if picking the right words to a song or to keep a dragon from treating her with the same impatience incompetence inspired in him. She had always been that way with her words: he thought little of it, though sometimes he imagined it amused him. "She is with him."

"That will change," he replied, voice steady with unfaltering confidence. "The Winged Goddess has already heard my call. She is just as weary as I. Together we will end the suffering of this world."

The ethereal woman looked sadly over to the window where Folken contemplated suffering and sleep. "Perhaps she will learn to overcome her suffering, Folken-sama."

He snorted quietly in dark amusement. "Yes, I think she will." He knew Sora was indicating a different outcome than what he had decided would be the fate of the world, but he was better served misinterpreting her disapproving comments. Despite her disapproval, she still stood with him, just as the Winged Goddess would.

Sora's voice was no less melodious for the soul-heavy sigh that escaped her. Folken did not know that she understood his purposeful misinterpretations were profoundly ironic.


	2. Fallen

[Further disclaimer:  The rights to Escaflowne belong to several people and legal entities; I am not one of them]

[Note:  Constructive criticism, flames, nice little notes ™ appreciated, but not mandatory.  

This is not quite what I expected to write, but I managed to keep it from the citrus it was trying to become.  Yay for me and will power.  Though I endorse well-written Folken smut, just not with his brother.]

Fallen 

"You should continue to rest, Folken-sama," Sora whispered softly, "if your plans are to be fulfilled as soon as you say."

A wry smile shaped his lips into an upward turning line.  "So maternal."

Her customary frown deepened at his words, but there was no immediate cause for concern; his head stayed concealed beneath the dark material of his cloak.  Cautious in tune and volume, she again took to the solace of her sorrowful music.  She could do very little to influence Folken's actions concerning others, but his mood could be swayed nominally if he allowed it.  

Folken was as sensible or irrational as he preferred and though his inclinations had become steadily honed by his unending hatred, he found Sora amused him even as she was useful to him.  She was hardly like the wretch, Dilandau, who still had all the mannerisms of a wild dog barking beneath the surface of his skin.  

Dilandau was only just a little better than useless, which was worse for the training dedicated to him over the years since he'd been brought back to civilization.  Sora had come to Folken fully into her abilities and hampered only by a sense of ethics he'd found easily overridden.  He never cared to ask why she did as he commanded of her; he understood she would not betray him and that made her eligible to attend him at all times.  With this understanding in mind he closed his eyes to the moonlight illuminating the room from the window at his back and allowed Sora to pull a blanket of sleep over his consciousness. 

His dreams were not unlike his thoughts, if his mind were not so active, even in slumber to have them.  When he did have them they were screened in darkness with flashes of fire and blood to illuminate the edges.  There were times when his dreams were no more restful than the daily exertions his leadership required.  

This night was like numerous others when the head of the Black Dragon clan found himself in the undisciplined realm of dreams.  He far preferred the oblivion of sleep than those nights when thoughts and memory thrashed in his mind like a freshly decapitated snake.

There were disturbing visions of figures made of levistone, which continually exerted such force that nothing could come near.  Of a mother made entirely of water, who splashed to the ground when touched.  Scenes from the past, awash with steaming blood and crushed bones, came to him.  They did not horrify him, only remind him of the injustice visited on him in his late teenage years.  He'd done what had to be done; there was nothing to regret.  

Though, it was when he saw the little boy with his mewling sidekick from Adom village that his whole body felt ripped raw.  The little boy, too young to be adorned with the traditional pigments of his people, would paint his arms and hands with clay.  Always the same designs as placed under his older brother's skin.  Always the delighted laughter and open arms and running feet.  

It inspired such rage in Folken.  The smiling little boy, panting hard, with adoring brown eyes and begging words from his dirty face.  "Oni-chan!  Show me your wings again!  Show me your wings!"

The little boy had no idea that he would grow up only to betray his older brother's trust for power and greed.  Folken hated the boy for that, for always asking to see his great white wings.  The child only made demands on him; there was never any giving.

"You want to see my wings?"  He asked the boy, an expression of informed disgust slightly twisting his lips.  He felt something momentous coming to him, something profound and deeply disturbing.  Trusting his rage, he succumbed to angry instinct.

"Please!  Please!"  The little boy shouted, clapping hands.  A cloud from the drying clay powdered the air with the boy's ecstatic movements.  

Without a moment's hesitation, Folken threw aside his shirt and clenched his fists before him.  A small realization whispered that his little brother never understood how much it hurt to produce the wings.  He didn't really care, his anger answered, the child would learn, the child would never forget.  Gathering his will to him, he called the wings.

Their wings blossomed from buds of exquisite agony.  The first time he'd grown them he'd nearly passed out.  The first time the child had grown them he'd stayed awake almost two days in order to keep them from receding, desperate to avoid having to call them again.

When the tremendously light, yet massive wings tore up through his flesh, Folken growled with the pain.  The boy squealed in glee and jumped up and down.  However, the show was not done yet.

"You want them so badly," Folken ground out between clenched teeth, "why don't you have them?"

It was as if he'd never done the deed.  Hands made strong in wilderness and on the hilt of a sword reached back over his shoulders and gripped his wings as near to the base as possible.  It was an awkward position, but no act of destruction was beyond hatred as vital as that fueling him.  

The pain was blinding, the child's screaming went almost unheard, the wet ripping flooded his back with warm moisture.  Blood rushed down the gully of his spine and across the ripple of his ribs.  The pain increased, the volume of the boy's screams competed with the sound of tearing flesh, popping cartilage, cracking bone.

But he still heard the words.  "Oni-chan!  Oni-chan!  Please don't!  Please don't hurt!  I'm sorry!  I'll never ask again!  Please!  I'm sorry!  Stop!"

Sora continued to sing forgiveness into her song as Folken slept.  It wasn't easy to manipulate him, but he had allowed her to bring sleep and she took what chances she could.  She dared hope for progress if she could make him see his brother's pain.  

When his fingers began to twitch, she knew he was fighting it and pressed harder.  Her voice raised to a higher volume than anyone, save Folken, had ever witnessed in Gaia.  

Outside the massive double doors, the assembled honor guard's discipline melted enough that one quietly whispered out of turn that Folken was a lucky man.  Not only did the rest of guard agree as they listened to the beautiful song, but they forgave him for breaking their strict silence.

The song died on her lips when Folken's head jerked back suddenly and impacted solidly with the window.  Despite the awkwardness of her gown, she left the dragon skeleton disc she habitually stood on and rushed to his side.  

Folken was disoriented.  He saw nothing but blackness, felt only raw pain, and heard nothing.  The oblivion he searched for was not as he expected; he still retained a sense of self and, moreover, memories.  

When Sora slid the dark cowl from his head, things came sharply back into focus.  His unevenly colored eyes focused on the pale figure before him, communicating very little as his momentary confusion shifted seamlessly into calculations.  His back, more specifically the areas surrounding his scapula, was in fiery, familiar agony.

Ignoring Sora, he concentrated for a moment and willed, as he hadn't for a few years, his wings to recede.  In a blind rage, he had ripped them from his body with his own hands and when the wounds left almost immediately, he had assumed he'd seen the last of either.  Now he understood better.  When he willed the wounds away, he no longer felt their pain.

Finishing what Sora began, he stood and pulled the cloak from him.  It was heavy with blood.  Behind him the floor and window were similarly marked.  

"Folken-sama…"  

Her voice was uncharacteristically unsteady.  Folken turned his head to observe whether or not her face matched her tone.  Her eyes, the color of burnished gold, were transfixed by the darkening blood dripping down the window, pooling where he sat, and the smaller puddles left in his wake.

"I was singing to soothe," she murmured in honest perplexity.  

He wasn't completely convinced she hadn't tried to do more than what she seemed to say, but he knew she would always stand by him, so he allowed himself to believe her.  "As you say.  Perhaps you were out of tune."

She returned his gaze slowly enough to indicate that she found his words harsh, but would not speak against him.  "I will call for medication."

He raised a hand to halt her.  "No, there is no need."

"And yet," she responded in concern, looking again at the crimson streaks on the glass.  "And yet this blood…"

"This blood," he echoed, now staring straight into her eyes with his own discomforting gaze, "will end with the rest of the world's suffering.  When the Winged Goddess joins with me."

            Sora looked away from Folken's gaze, knowing her heart was heavy with the weight of what was to come.


	3. Sorrow

[Even further disclaimer:  While I'd be happy to have the rights to Escaflowne, fate and other fertile imaginations have proved otherwise.] Sorrow 

            The honor guard, though recently enraptured by Sora's plaintive singing, was at attention when the massive double doors opened inward.  They sketched the formalities assigned them when their lord swept into the outer halls.  It was rare they saw him leave the chamber, for the work he performed within was known to be taxing and needed to be performed without distraction.

            When they observed the blood weighing his cloak, dripping from the tail of his coat of black mesh, and dotting the floor behind him they were perplexed.  Their faces, though, were carefully schooled; they were charged with more than keeping Folken's door, but also to convey an air of distilled intimidation and menace.  They were not alarmed by the sight of the blood as long as Folken did not act is if they should be.

            Sora kept a respectful distance behind Folken, gracefully advancing without trailing the hem of her pale garment in the smaller marks of blood.  Behind her she heard the booted cadence of the honor detail.  She imagined someone would soon be called from sleep and dispatched to remove all evidence of the evening's disturbance.

            Folken seemed oblivious to what little activity the floating fortress employed in the small hours of the night.  His presence swallowed up the sentience of those he passed, leaving soldier and servant alike in a wake of fearful fascination.  The inhabitants did not find their lord to be especially cruel, but they knew he tolerated no deviance from prescribed duties by accident or choice.  Wisely, they appreciated his lack of acknowledgement.  

            Arriving at his personal quarters, Folken spared a final, weak, spike of anger to slam the less impressive double doors open with his inherited telekinesis.  He did not waste physical or mental energy to close the doors once he swept within the room.  Rather, he swept past them to stalk to the center of his high-ceilinged chamber where he stood and waited patiently.

            Without hesitation, Sora followed him into the elegant, if spartanly furnished, room.  A slight gesture indicated to the further, smaller, retinue already flanking the door, that it should be closed behind her.  A second gesture, less abbreviated, told them a servant should be fetched with a basin of water.  They accepted the orders without question; it wasn't the first time they'd followed similar instructions from the mysterious woman.

            Sora found Folken standing in the Mystic moon's radiance; the light was allowed entry from the long thin windows bridging floor and ceiling.  The blood was no less red in the pale light, though it was lent a silvery cast.  His expression gave away little, certainly nothing of use.

            Knowing his mind somewhat, she approached him and carefully took the cloak from where it draped over his arm.  "I am not your maid."

            He didn't deign to grant her comment a reply; his actions were sufficient to suggest he believed otherwise.  With his hands free, he undid the stylized dragonhead buckle that held the elaborate overcoat's shaped leather closed in front.  

            Without giving in to a slight rise in irritation, Sora lifted a delicate hand to the coat's fur collar and pulled back.  The garment slid to the floor easily, its metal fittings ringing quietly against stone.  It was a stiff enough garment that it did not lose much of its shape even after being dropped to the floor.  Sora mused silently that Folken's chains would not be so easily shed, especially if he did not wish to shed them.

            Folken did not react when a hand servant, burdened by a basin of steaming water entered the room.  He looked on nonchalantly as the servant kept his head down and placed the basin near Folken's feet.  The servant coordinated with Sora with a few glances and bows of deep respect.  Without words, the man unbuckled and helped Folken remove his breastplate, freeing a small deluge of blood previously trapped against the small of his back to run down the gray coat of chain.  

            It did not escape his notice that Sora had ceased all aid.  Again, he found he could almost sense himself to be amused at her reaction.  It was, perhaps, a remaining vestige of the man he once was that he could still be amused by what he took to be daintiness.  The world had no place for squeamishness, but he could grant loyalty and usefulness the privilege.

            The chain coat was easy enough to remove.  He shrugged out of the amazingly heavy mesh with little help from the hand servant.  As it was lifted from him, Folken turned his head to observe the extent of his wings' bloody reminder in the reflection of the room's only mirror.  The undershirt's light green linen easily revealed his entire back to be soaked in blood while the back of his black trousers, shone wetly in the moonlight.

            Snorting softly, understanding now the growing waves of light-headedness assaulting him, Folken began to loosen the simple laces of the green undershirt.  Beside him, the hand servant waited attentively and took the shirt as it was pulled off and handed to him.  Somewhat unexpectedly, though, the man backed away with a bow.  He gathered the heavy load of armor and clothing and left the room.

            Folken cast his gaze on Sora.  "I thought you were not my maid."

            The woman shook her head slightly, but stooped to retrieve a cloth from the hot water.  "I am not," she repeated quietly, "but I know you are weary and dislike anyone to see you as such."

            He snorted softly again, but began unfastening his trousers all the same.  "I don't think I care for your maternal attitude."  His hands paused and he looked over his shoulder at her frowning face.  "Or am I mistaken?"

            If anything, her frown came as close to a glower as he had seen.  "If Folken-sama wishes me to leave, I will be happy to do so.  I'm sure he can reach his back effectively on his own."

            The comments were so mundane Folken found himself close to amused again.  He attributed his mood to both loss of blood and, as she had said, weariness.  "I find your presence sufficient."

            "Very well," she sighed, and lifted the cloth with both hands to wipe away the wet and drying blood from his back.  As she did so he leaned down to remove his boots and then straightened to further disrobe.

            The wet blood came away easily under her hands, leaving thick outlines of dried blood in a macabre parody of a map.  The blue tattoos of his youth, slightly blurred at the edges from age, put her in mind of bodies of water and his unadorned skin as desert.  It wasn't the first time she had noticed them as such, but she felt it would probably be the last if he was not dissuaded from his course.  Her last opportunity was at hand.  He was physically weak, mentally weary, and emotionally drained; no time could be better.

            There were many things that Sora knew through her natural gifts, but one in particular concerned her in regard to Folken.  This night was the eve of his destruction and he would either die a slave to his hatred or, perhaps, be reborn as the man formerly crushed by a father's disappointment.  Either way, the same hands that killed his father, ripped out his own wings, and yearned to crush his younger brother's neck sealed his fate long ago.

            Sora's melancholy problem was that she had no real desire to see him die.  She knew his pain, knew his reasons, though utterly misled, for all he'd done.   And though she found him and his actions morally bankrupt on almost every front, she could not deny that his hatred and her sorrow called them together.

  [Author notes:  A bit more action, a bit less introspection, more indication that I'm more than a closet sukebe.  Writing Sora has been very difficult, especially when she seems on par with Folken in the poker face department.  Character interactions are cobbled together with a healthy dose of extrapolation and personal fancy.  

One installment to go and I'm satisfied with it.]


	4. Bound

[Yet another Disclaimer:  If the rights to Escaflowne belonged to me, I wouldn't be writing fan fiction.  Since they don't, I just have to make do.]

[Notes: I honestly envisioned this chapter as I wrote it, but I was trying to make it not run in any sort of 'adult' direction.  In the end, story won over.  Thanks to reviewers: I hope you enjoy the last of it.  Special thanks to NickelS and Rai Dorian for particularly detailed encouragement/reviews.]

[Warnings:  If you don't like angst, implied violence, sex, or people who just aren't reasonable, this last installment may not be your thing.  Also, if you haven't seen the movie there is an Ending Spoiler in the second to last paragraph.]

Bound

            Disrobed, Folken took up a warm cloth from the basin's darkening water and set about washing the blood that had run down his legs.  It took firm strokes to remove the dried blood, but it was hardly something he was unused to.  There was not a square inch of skin on his body that had not known the illicit taste of freshly spilled life.  There was a certain enjoyment, he mused, in the feel of warm blood that was not unlike the distant pleasure of removing it.

            When Sora replaced her cloth in the darkening water, he thought, perhaps, he could find it in his mind to miss her aid.  It wasn't beyond him in his weakened state, but it did rankle in some growling corner of his mind.  He continued to wash the last of his own stubborn blood away as Sora retrieved dry linen.

            It was with detached surprise he found his body was so weakened that he could not dress himself without support.  He had to move to his bedchamber and lean against the bed in order to pull the soft linen over his legs.  Still at hand, Sora retrieved a ceramic jar from among others lining the interior of a recessed cabinet and approached him.  The ceramic was of moderate size and weighed her porcelain hands down before her and rustled the gold trinkets on her wide bracelets. 

            He sat down heavily and looked up at her through spikes of hair, made somewhat damp from both of their cleaning efforts.  "Is this more of your maternal nature shining forth?"  His voice was neither insulting nor compassionate as he repeated his suspicions.  "Or is it something else?"

            She continued to frown at the subtle accusation underlying his words, but moved forward all the same.  She placed the jar in his hands, boldly trying to force him to play a little by her rules for a moment.  He accepted the burden without irritation or lowering hands; it was obvious he was humoring her. "Folken-sama, I am not your maid.  Neither am I your mother."  She carefully slid her fingertips into the jar and lifted out a small amount of salve, which she spread evenly over her palms before preparing to lay her delicate hands on him.  "Each time you accuse me of being maternal I am reminding you of your limits.  This time, I am not reminding you of your limits because you are finally aware of them."

            As difficult as his gaze was to hold with his unevenly colored eyes, she did not look away.  She read annoyance and interest mingled with the overlying weakness saturating nearly every level of his being.  "Then, what now?"  

            An almost undetectable shift in her expression revealed her slight hope as a wan smile.  He was too tired to even play games.  "Now I will sooth your muscles, sing your mind to rest, and see you rise without ache from muscles long since used."

            There was more to what she said than she was revealing, he reasoned, but seeing the rare lightening of her features, he assumed she was possibly thinking to take advantage of his depleted physical state.  He couldn't say why, but the idea genuinely amused him.  Even though there was no longer any physical pain from what was left of his winds, he sighed and turned on the bed to allow her access to his back.  "If you must."

            It was true that he was a man hardened by perceived betrayal and hatred.  He'd had almost a decade to be refined and rarified by dark emotions and destructive desires.  Sora didn't think the task of turning him away from the precipice of oblivion would be easy, but she had bided her time.  She had cultivated his trust by trusting him in a way very few could understand.  Sora trusted Folken to do his worst and trusted that Folken would misunderstand her trust and eventually accept her as less than a credible threat.  In this, he had not betrayed nor disappointed.

            Her hands were not meant for the task at hand, but she would do everything in her power to save the world and… she admitted… him.  She was a mystic, a seer, and, she assumed, not unlike other moths that had been drawn to equally destructive flames.  She saw to the core of his pain and part of her suffered with him, even though she knew he kept his pain close to his heart, like a jewel in the heart of a constellation of shrouds.

            Quietly, she murmured a song as her hands swept over warm skin that had, moments before, kept his blood on the wrong side.  She knew little of musculature or how to manipulate nerves to give up their tension.  However, she knew from previous experience how to draw him into a state of deeper, almost emotional, trust.  Despite his weariness, she drew her hands across his body in a manner she knew would yield the results they might both desire.

            Folken knew where she was headed before she'd begun to help him remove the blood.  It wasn't something he hoped for or actively desired that night; he set his ardor on higher ambitions.  He'd have rather rested in the comforting nothingness of true oblivion than in the artificial nothingness of a post-coital fugue.  But the suffering would end the next day and he assumed Sora could aid him in finding dreamless sleep.  After the rising memories of Van he knew he would appreciate the artificial oblivion.  There was also the small thought that perhaps, just perhaps, Sora needed… something, too.

            Thus, they twined together for a time: Sora singing forgiveness, Folken seeking a moment of nothingness.  

            And when the Mystic moon's orbit brought it's light from the main chamber to his bed, it found them veiled in strands of silver and pale hair.  She continued to murmur her song, while he untangled the silken ties that bound them.  Her heart was poured into her power and the effect was not lost on him.  Though near true sleep, his light and dark amber eyes were hazed with what could only be the edge of emotion.  Her window of opportunity was as open as it would ever be.

            "Folken-sama," she whispered in melodious tones.

            His gaze slanted up from his callused fingers' continued attempts at freeing them from their web and acknowledged her request for his attention.

            She shifted under the blankets, moved against him in what she hoped was not an alarmingly intimate act, despite their prior activity.  He was warm and the firm plains of his muscles had the potential to be more comforting than intimidating if his heart could soften.  He did not draw away nor did he attempt to draw her into any kind of reciprocating embrace.  It was, at least, better than the adverse.  

            "Folken-sama," she repeated before continuing in her musical voice, "in oblivion we will lose even comfort; we will not exist.  The things you have done and built will be gone."

            She was certain she'd affected him when he sighed and took on an almost commiserating aspect.  "It is mercy.  There will be no comfort but also no suffering.  My suffering will cease as will…" A distinct frown compressed his lips.  "Van's."

            Sensing the rising tide of his hatred, anger and betrayal, Sora hastened to add, "Does not even the child deserve forgiveness?  Children are manipulated so easily by adults."

            He seemed conflicted for a moment, paused on the threshold of fate.  Children were easily led and Van had been a naïve child…  Van had emulated him in the most guileless manner.  There were times the little boy had declared him the best at all the things only a child would find important.  Before he'd gone on his rite of initiation, the young boy had been all wide-eyed admiration.  The boy had had no room for doubts.  Once… there had been overwhelming love in his heart for his little brother.

            Sora felt a melting in Folken, a thoughtfulness that could lead to a better end.  She dared hope tragedy could be averted.  Carefully, she placed her hands on his chest, on the tattoos of his people.

But when he'd failed he'd proved a flawed vessel, unfit for leadership or storing even a young boy's faith in.  When he'd failed, despite his best, strongest, sincere efforts, he had betrayed Van.  Van's pain began the day Dune had returned a failure.  Van's suffering could never be assuaged as long as his older brother was unfit to rule.  It was an understanding Folken never wanted to remember.

            If Van had never expected so much from him there would never have been an initial betrayal.  There would have never been a need to return the favor by accepting his own eventual rite of initiation.  If Van had refused, Folken wouldn't have been forced to raise his own army to prove himself.  If Van had sided with him, even on the eve of the planned attack, there would have been few to no deaths incurred.

Becoming a leader hadn't satisfied Van; it hadn't proved there was no initial betrayal.  It turned him even farther away and instilled a deeper hatred.  Now… now not even if Van offered to join him, would Folken accept him.  Now they could only be joined in death.

Folken's eyes narrowed to amber slits. His lips barely moved as he growled, "No, children ask for everything and give nothing in return."

As quickly as her moment of hope materialized, it was claimed by the destructive hatred lacing him together.  It was now a crucial part of him, filling all the cracks in his personality.  It had invaded the foundation of who he was.  Without root deep hatred, Folken would fall apart.  His chains were all that kept him together.

Sick with defeat, she turned away from him, fleeing his painful heat.  Flashing bright in her mind, a veil was ripped wide, revealing the image of a cruel looking knife blossoming obscenely from the black breastplate he normally wore.  There were no tears in her eyes, her sorrow was much too profound for that.  Instead, her heart kept time to the dirge in her soul.

He did not reach out for her despite her sudden withdrawal.  Perhaps it was best for her to learn that expecting too much from him always led to unavoidable betrayal.  He much preferred sleep to continued suffering.  Essentially alone, he slipped into oblivion and dreamt of nothing.


End file.
